


Secret Ingredient

by Lindenharp



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 02:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17398484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: It's not The Great British Bake Off--just some mince pies for a casual family lunch. Nothing to worry about, right?





	Secret Ingredient

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Winter Holiday Challenge for the Lewis Challenge community on Dreamwidth. My prompt was "mince pies".

James frowns at the list of names in front of him. Robbie glances from his side of the cafe table. "What's that? Suspects in a case?"

"No." James holds out the paper.

"Beeton, Berry, Blumenthal, Lawson, Oliver, Ramsay, Slater, Smith--hang on, these are all cooks, right?"

"Well-spotted. You should be a detective. I'm trying to find the best recipe for mince pies," James confesses.

"James... maybe you're overthinking this?"

There's no 'maybe' about it. James is glad that Robbie doesn't know about the spreadsheet on his laptop, comparing ingredients and bake times. "I just want it come come out well, that's all." He doesn't add, _I want to make a good impression on your family_. He doesn't need to say it. There are pros and cons to being in a relationship with a brilliant detective who knows all of your insecurities.

"James, it will be fine. Lyn and Tim liked you straight away, when they met you, didn't they?"

_That was when I was just your sergeant, not your lover. Not a too-young, too-posh know-it-all usurping Val's place in your life._

That, too, doesn't need to be said aloud. Robbie sighs. "Have many times have I got to say it? When I went up to Manchester for Christmas, and told them about us, Lyn said she was sorry you couldn't have come, too. She won't take any excuses next year, so you had best clear your schedule."

Next Christmas seems a lifetime away, so James nods obediently. Right now, he's concerned about a more proximate ordeal. Lyn and Tim are taking baby Jack to visit Tim's parents in Pucklechurch, near Bristol. And they seem to have decided—Robbie swears it wasn't his suggestion—that a slight detour to Oxford is necessary.

"It's just a family lunch, not a five-course Christmas dinner with all the trimmings," Robbie says, for what must be the hundredth time. It's no more comforting than it was the first ninety and nine.

James isn't quite sure how his offer to bring 'something for pudding' turned into bringing— _baking!_ —mince pies. Robbie had mentioned Lyn’s fondness for them while reminiscing about Christmases past, and things had escalated from there. "It might not be quite what she's used to..." He hasn't dared ask about Val's recipe for mince pies. That seemed like crossing a line.

Robbie waves off his hesitation. "You _are_ overthinking it. This isn't _The Great British Bake Off._ No one is going to judge you. Just don't go all avant-garde. No chocolate chips or mango custard filling. And nothing by Gordon Ramsay."

"Oh?"

"He's a git," Robbie says firmly. "And a Chelsea supporter."

 _That_ coaxes a smile out of James. "Beyond the pale," he says solemnly. "I will cross him off the list." Pulling a biro from his pocket, he does just that.

"It will be fine," Robbie repeats.

* * *

"Famous last words," James moans, surveying the disaster in his kitchen. How had things gone pear-shaped so quickly? He had just put the pies in the oven when Mrs Patel from next door had rapped on his door. She’d urgently needed something from the back of the cupboard above the fridge, and didn’t trust her balance on a step stool. He'd only been over there for five minutes—ten at the most—and had returned to find a kitchen full of smoke and an oven full of things that more closely resembled charcoal briquettes than anything edible.

 _God, what do I do now?_ He hasn't got the ingredients to bake another batch. Even if he did, he hasn't got the time. Lunch is to be served promptly at 1:00, to allow Lyn and Tim to continue their journey at a reasonable hour. In his blithe arrogance, James had planned to make the pies shortly before leaving for Robbie's house, so they'd be still warm from the oven. _Hubris. Superbia._ _Overweening pride. James, you are a bloody fool._

Enough self-recrimination. The important thing is that he mustn't show up empty-handed. He'll swallow his pride and _buy_ the damned pies. There's a bakery in Robbie's neighbourhood that makes excellent cakes and pastries; no reason to think that their mince pies won't be of equally high quality. This simple plan cheers him enough that by the time he arrives at the bakery, he's whistling a favourite passage from Bach's _Coffee Cantata_.

 _CLOSED_. The simple six-letter English word so stuns James that it's a full minute before he can read and comprehend the message that follows. Christmas is over. The hard-working bakers who spent all of December supplying the good folk of Oxford with gingerbread, fruitcakes, mince pies, stollen, panforte, and fancy iced biscuits for Santa have shut down their ovens, locked their doors, and gone on holiday to bake themselves on the beaches of Torremolinos and Lanzarote.

 _Bugger!_ What now? There's not another bakery nearby. If he goes farther afield in search of one, he'll be unpardonably late for lunch. A supermarket is his next best bet. There's a Sainsbury’s around the corner... The yellow caution tape across the door catches his eye first, then the large, hand-lettered sign that says something apologetic about a power outage. This is not happening. This can not be happening. Any moment now, surely he will awaken from this nightmare to find himself in the early-morning calm of his flat.

James glances at his watch and curses at what it tells him. No time to be picky. He drives around the corner and runs into the Tesco Express. The freezer case is in a state of post-Christmas depletion. He spies one box at the very back, and grabs it, only to be confronted with the alarming words 'vegan' and 'gluten free'. The baked goods section is equally depressing. There's something toffee-flavoured, a box of something more traditional which might be acceptable if half the contents were not broken, and an unfamiliar brand which seems to contain enough E numbers to stock a mid-sized chemical plant.

He's half-seriously considering a package of cordial cherries, when a bright red box catches his eye. _Better than nothing._ And thank God and all His saints he had the presence of mind to grab the bottle of cognac before he left home. A splash of Remy Martin VSOP should redeem even a mediocre mince pie... shouldn't it?

* * *

Lyn meets him at the door. "James, I'm so glad you could come. Tim! Come say hello to James."

"You have to let him in first, love," Tim says with a chuckle.

She flushes. "Sorry. Come in." Is her smile is little forced? She starts to show him where he can hang his coat, then mimes slapping her forehead. "Of course, you know that. You've been here before."

In fact, he has his own key, but James doesn't feel a need to mention that. He murmurs something polite, then offers Tim a handshake and a friendly nod.

"Dad's overseeing things in the kitchen," Lyn explains. "He says we're to keep you company and not worry about lunch, and that not even he can muck up reheating chicken tikka." She smiles. "Dad says that you've baked mince pies. I can't wait to try them."

"Actually..." James begins, only to be interrupted by Robbie's voice from the kitchen.

"Lyn! The bairn's awake and fussing."

"Sorry. I thought he'd nap for a while longer, but traveling seems to disrupt his schedule. I need to feed him." Smiling apologetically, she leaves him alone with Tim.

After a few false starts (football? autos?) James finds that Tim is fairly easy to chat to. Like coppers, people in the medical professions often have a somewhat dark, irreverent sense of humour. He shares some stories of his work as a physio (the white-haired grandmother who cheerfully swore like a sailor during her exercises; the amputee who kept taking off his prosthetic leg and using it as a golf club to shoot grapes into plastic cups).

James, in his turn, tells some of his experiences as a green constable, such as the Classics student who decided to insult 'PC Plod' in Latin. "It would have been unprofessional to reply in kind, but I was able to arrest him when he tried to punch me."

"Why did he do that?"

"He took exception to my telling him he'd used the wrong declension."

Tim is still chuckling when Robbie enters the lounge, followed by Lyn with Jack in her arms. "Hello, James."

"Erm... hello, Robbie." James isn't used to greeting his lover in a social situation, especially in front of the man's own family. He tenses as Robbie approaches, but Robbie only claps him on the shoulder in passing, and seats himself in the armchair opposite the sofa.

Lyn claims the spot on the sofa between James and Tim. "Jack, say hello to your Uncle James." She does not, thank God, offer the baby for him to hold.

James tries to look friendly and avuncular. "Hello, Jack." Jack yawns, and fixes his gaze on a patch of ceiling which is apparently far more interesting than 'Uncle' James.

Is he supposed to ask about the baby? What is there to say about a child that young? He isn't yet crawling, let alone walking. Can he even turn over? Does he do anything other than eat, sleep, and defecate? James doesn't dislike babies, exactly. He regards them as he would some exotic wild creature—a wonder of Creation, but of uncertain temperament, and best admired at a distance.

Fortunately, Robbie steps into the breach, asking about the minutiae of Jack's health, routine, and accomplishments, and comparing and contrasting them with those of Lyn and her brother at the same age. When that topic is finally exhausted, they turn to more general subjects of conversation. James joins in, trying to find the ever-tricky balance between laconic unsociability and showing off. Midway through a discussion of current films, James gets the feeling that Lyn is evaluating him.

She's perfectly pleasant, even friendly. Still he's got the sense of being weighed in the balance. Will he be found wanting? He hopes not, for Robbie's sake as well as his own. Robbie says that Lyn is all right with them being together, but there are degrees of 'all right'. Family means a lot to Robbie; James would hate to be the cause of even the slightest tension between him and his beloved daughter.

Is there anything he can to to make himself more acceptable to Lyn? He's pondering that question when he becomes aware that the others are all standing. It's time for lunch.

* * *

Lunch is in the rarely-used dining room, as the kitchen table won't easily fit four adults. For that matter, James isn't sure that the kitchen table could fit all the food. In addition to chicken tikka masala, Robbie seems to have ordered half the menu from Tandoor Palace. James is pleasantly surprised to see the lamb vindaloo he likes, as Robbie claims it should be banned by Health and Safety. Its presence on the table is explained when Lyn asks him to pass the dish.

"Pet, are you sure that won't upset the bairn's stomach?"

Lyn rolls her eyes. Evidently this is not the first time they've had this conversation. "It's actually good for him, Dad. Studies show that babies who are exposed to a variety of flavours in the milk adapt more easily when they begin eating solid foods. It's caffeine that I need to limit. No more than two cups of coffee a day."

James shudders at the thought. "You are a brave woman, Lyn Lewis."

"It's worth it." She smiles down at Jack, nestled in a sling against her chest.

For a few minutes, the conversation is limited to "Pass the rice, please" "I love these samosas" and "Hot sauce? Christ, it's a wonder there isn't steam coming out of your ears."

Finally, they all set down their forks. "I'm stuffed," Lyn declares.

"Too full for pudding, pet?" Robbie asks.

"Never, Dad. You know me. And I wouldn't miss James's mince pies."

All eyes turn to James. Now is the moment that he should confess what happened. It's not a big deal. They'll understand, maybe even get a laugh out of the story. He opens his mouth and hears himself saying, "I need to warm them up a bit."

James hurries into the kitchen, carrier bag in hand. He switches on the oven, and begins removing pies from their packages and placing them on a baking tin. He takes the thinest knife he can find, and makes tiny slits in the top crusts. With the help of a mini funnel, he pours a generous slug of cognac into each pie. He's so focused on his task that he's oblivious to his surroundings.

"Need a hand?"

James turns so abruptly that nearly half a jigger of Remy Martin sloshes over his hand. "Robbie..." Belatedly, he realises that the empty red boxes emblazoned 'Mr Kipling Mince Pies' are still on the counter. His cheeks burn. He feels like a schoolboy caught in a particularly inept prank.

Keen blue eyes take in the whole scene in one sweeping glance. Robbie's lips twitch. "I reckon there's a story to be told... later."

"Later, yes. For now, let's just say that I feel like the poster boy for Sod's Law."

Robbie chuckles. "Anything I can do?"

"Thanks, no. Just go back to the lounge and visit with your family."

"Yes, Chef," Robbie replies, grinning. Before he exits the room he detours to the counter, picks up the empty pie boxes, flattens and folds them, and buries them deep inside the kitchen bin.

It takes only a minute to finish adding brandy to the pies. The oven isn't up to temperature yet, so he decides to add some decoration— _Be honest, James, it's camouflage_ —to the top crusts. A milk wash and a sprinkling of sugar will give the crust a festive sparkle.

Everyone makes noises of appreciation when James returns to the table, bearing a platter of a dozen mince pies. “Smells good, mate,” Tim says, and promptly snatches two.

Robbie takes the platter and holds it out for Lyn to help herself. He puts one on his own plate, then hands it back to James.

James takes one for himself, if only because it would look odd not to do so. And he should know what he’s inflicted on Robbie and his family. _Mr Kipling’s Humble Pie._

Tim is the first to comment. “They’re good.  I won’t have more than two, though.” He grins. “Don’t want to get pulled over for drink driving.” He says, in a deliberately slurred voice, “Officer, I swear I only had three or four mince pies.” Everyone laughs.

Lyn studies her pie before taking a bite. Her face is thoughtful. Perhaps this _is_ The Great British Bake Off, home edition. She takes a second bite. “They remind me of Mum’s. Don’t you think so, Dad?” Father and daughter exchange a long, meaningful glance. There’s a whole silent conversation going on, James is sure.

Finally, Robbie nods. “They do taste like Val’s. I reckon it’s because James’s has got the same secret ingredient.”

“Really?” Lyn asks in a very small voice.

“Really,” Robbie replies firmly.

Lyn seems to retreat back into her own thoughts. Tim asks Robbie what the best route to Pucklechurch would be. Going from Manchester to visit his family, they usually head straight down the M5, but the detour to Oxford has put them much further east. "I can check the satnav, but local knowledge is better."

Robbie frowns. "I haven't been to Bristol for yonks." He turns to James. "You go down that way, for one of your music festivals, right?”

"Erm, yeah. Bristol Blues. I'd take the A420 to the M4. Shouldn't be too much traffic on a Saturday afternoon."

Tim offers his thanks. "I'd like to get on the road before dark. Jackie boy, do you need a fresh nappy?" He scoops up his son and disappears into the bedroom.

Within five minutes the travelers are in their coats and ready to go. Tim shakes hands with Robbie and James. "I'll get the car warmed up."

Jack, strapped into his portable car seat, is starting to doze, and he doesn't stir when Lyn sets him down so she can hug her father goodbye. Robbie kisses her on the top of her head. "Have a good visit. Text me when you get there, all right?"

She turns to James. "Thanks for... I'm glad that you..." Without warning, she flings her arms around him in a tight embrace, and whispers, "Welcome to the family, James."

* * *

James joins Robbie in the kitchen to help with the washing-up. As Robbie passes the baking tin to James for drying he remarks, "That reminds me... you owe me a story."

James grimaces. "I suppose I do." He relates the day's misfortunes, beginning with Mrs Patel's badly-timed summons.

Robbie tries to look sympathetic, but by the time James gets to the end, he explodes with laughter. "I'm sorry, but I can't help it. You were right, what you said before—poster boy for Sod's Law."

"I'm glad that my suffering and humiliation served a useful purpose, if only to amuse you," James retorts.

"Pffft! It came out all right, in the end. Everyone liked them well enough."

James hesitates, then decides that he needs to know. "What was that you were saying to Lyn about a secret ingredient?"

"Ah, that." Robbie turns off the tap, dries his hands on a Newcastle United tea towel, and seats himself at the now-clean kitchen table. James joins him. "My Val was a woman of many talents. She was a good cook, but baking wasn't her strong suit. So she made jellies and custards and such for pudding, and when we wanted cakes and biscuits for tea, they came from the shops."

James nods. Why had he assumed that Val was a kitchen goddess? She'd bought her mince pies, like thousands of other British housewives who lacked the time, inclination, or skill to bake their own.

Robbie continues, "One Christmas... I think Lyn was twelve, maybe thirteen? She was at that age where parents can't do anything right. She'd been talking about a friend at school whose mum was a fantastic baker. To hear Lyn tell it, there was something home-baked on Mrs Wilson's table, seven days a week. Victoria sponge, Bakewell tarts, Battenberg cake, fancy French stuff—you get the idea.

"Val used to buy the frozen mince pies from Tesco. She'd dress them up a bit, like you did, and they were pretty good. On Boxing Day, I asked Val if there were any more mince pies, and Lyn asked me why I liked them so much, since they were just store-bought crap. Val looked like she'd been slapped, and I have to tell you, I don't think I ever came so close to slapping Lyn."

James reflects that if he'd ever spoken like that to his father, a slap would have been the least of his worries. "What did you do?"

"I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and told Lyn that I liked her mum's mince pies because of the secret ingredient."

"I'm guessing you didn't mean cognac." James says.

Robbie's face is pink. "I told her that the secret ingredient was... love. And then Little Miss Smartarse said, 'Do you mean 'made with love' like in the ChocoTreats advert? Because she doesn't actually _make_ the pies.' So I counted to twenty and said, 'You've got it backwards. The pies taste good because I love your mum. _That_ is the secret ingredient.'" He stares down at the surface of the table.

James is silent. They're not much for talking about emotions. Robbie has shown how he feels about James through countless acts of intimacy and trust. Perhaps the biggest gesture of all was telling his family about their relationship. But they've never used the 'L-word', as one of his bandmates likes to call it. "I don't know what to say."

Robbie pulls a face. "Is there anything that needs saying?"

James considers the question, then shrugs. "Not really."

"Well, then, maybe it's time for the not-so-secret ingredient. Is there anything left in that bottle of Remy?"

"Oh, yes." James rises and removes two wine glasses from a cupboard. He pours the cognac carefully, and sets the glasses on the table.

Robbie raises his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The next few minutes are spent in quiet appreciation of the cognac. James looks across the table at Robbie’s hand curved around the glass. Strong. Steady. Warm. An impulse springs up inside him, and for once, he doesn’t push it down. “Actually, there _is_ something I need to say... but not in English.”

Robbie meets his gaze. “I’m listening.”

The Latin comes haltingly at first. He’d memorised the poem years ago, because the words spoke to his heart, even though he was certain there’d never be anyone in his life to recite them to. He looks into Robbie’s eyes, and lets a man who has been dust for twenty-one centuries speak for him.

When the last ancient syllable falls from his tongue, he holds his breath, waiting... for what? A kind but puzzled look? A joking request for a translation?

"Thank you, bonny lad." Robbie's smile, warm and knowing, promises that later he'll reaffirm his own feelings in a wordless language far older than English or Latin.  

\--- THE END ---


End file.
